


Jessica

by counterheist



Category: Doctor Who, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Doctor Who fusion, Gen, fanboy England, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-13
Updated: 2011-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-22 20:12:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/counterheist/pseuds/counterheist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America makes another alien friend. England has been prepared for this since 1963, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jessica

**Author's Note:**

> All you need to know is that [this is what a Dalek looks like](http://geek-news.mtv.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/06/tumblr_l219mn6zre1qa7yfto1_400.jpg), and they say EXTERMINATE a lot.

America’s house has a white picket fence. Three soggy newspapers sit forlornly in front of it, and that’s how England knows for sure that America is in town. Like England, America hires a neighbor child to pick up the paper and feed the cats when vacation or work trips call him away. Unlike England, America never remembers to get the news himself when he’s actually home to read it. Also unlike England, America’s cats are actually an alien and a whale, and Timmy may never fully recover from that but at least no one in the neighborhood ever believes him anyway.

The newspapers squish a little as England picks them up and holds them gingerly an arm’s length away. It’s not that he doesn’t believe America’s press is worthy, even though it mostly isn’t, but a slightly molding New York Times is still _slightly molding_.

“America,” he calls, letting the latch on the gate fall into place behind him, “America you need to be more re— re— re…”

Responsible, reasonable, reciprocornous.

Whatever England wants to say falls to the wayside, because by the Queen’s corgies, that’s, “A Dalek. America. America, that is a _Dalek_.” England nods, intelligently, and doesn’t feel the newspapers fall from his grasp because he has more important matters to gape at.

Across the lawn, sitting at an elegant metal table that is all curves and cast-iron leaves, America blinks. He tilts his head to the side, before swerving it altogether to address his companion.

“Is he talkin’ to you, you think,” he asks, “or to me? What’s a Da-lek?”

The Dalek next to him shakes. Several lights flash, somewhere on its body. It doesn’t otherwise move.

England moves.

He moves before he remembers that that’s what Daleks want from you ( _aside from your swift death_ ); they want you to race about like a drunkard with his pants on fire, helpless and foolish, and then they want to zap you into bits so small that not even the best Doctor could fit you back together again. England gets the Doctor Who magazine monthly, so he knows these things. He is also approximately two-thirds certain that he met the _real_ Doctor, once, in the sixties. The fourteen-sixties.

That meeting and those magazines give him the courage, despite the imminent threat of a lasery death, to act.

“All right,” he shouts, “all right you Dalek! Get away from America if you know what’s good for you!”

America snickers. “Hey, hey, cool it.” He pats the armored killing machine next to him and takes a sip from a glass full of what looks to be some ridiculously pink juice. The Dalek also has a glass in front of it. The Dalek’s glass has a curly straw in it. “You know I don’t understand anything you say when you’re talkin’ British.”

The Dalek does not move. Perhaps it is dormant, hibernating; perhaps America’s people dug it up somewhere and America installed it as a fixture on his lawn because he could. England wouldn’t put it past him, really, but now is not the time to critique America’s taste. Now is the time to run, and perhaps the time to hope that when the Doctor comes, because he will, that he will notice the miniature light-up sonic screwdriver on England's keyring.

All the crude jokes from France about keeping a vibrator in his back pocket will be worth it if the Doctor notices how England has taken the batteries out of the device and replaced them with rune stones. The noises it makes might not be entirely the same, but the light it produces is much brighter, now, and sometimes it can even summon the spirits of the arcane.

England doesn’t notice he’s lost track of the conversation until he realizes America is asking the _thing_ if it would like more ice. He lets his hand move slowly, carefully, towards his back pocket. “Step away now, slowly, for your own safety,” he says.

“Blah, blah, blah,” America says.

England has no idea how he raised this terrible little upstart. He frowns and tries to speak to America with reason. Sometimes America pretends to understand reason. “That is a depraved monster. Get away from it.”

The word ‘depraved’ leaves England’s lips, and America jumps to his feet, as if defending his Lady’s honor. “Are you insulting Jessica? What did Jessica ever do to you?”

Oh.

Oh, bugger.

He _is_ defending his Lady’s honor.

England wants to cry.

Instead, he— technically he still cries, but it’s mostly in his soul so America can’t see it. “ _ **Jessica?**_ ”

Jessica?

_Jessica?_

England hopes the Doctor hasn’t gotten here yet, because the indignity of it all would render both their screwdrivers useless.

America does not seem to notice. England thinks it’s because he’s an idiot. Strike that. England _knows_ it’s because America’s an idiot. He’s known that America has no self-preservation skills since the day he heard about the Big Mac.

“Isn’t she pretty?” America coos it in the Dalek’s… if the Dalek were a person, and not a fucking _Dalek_ , America would have been cooing in its ear. Her ear. Its ear. Oh, hell. “I found her outside my house. She was lost. And kind of lonely, I think, because when I tried to help her inside she,” America pats the Dalek on the head and lets out a patient sigh, “lashed out.”

That explains the block full of fence holes. It also explains the broken trees. But England will be damned if it explains the juice.

He draws the replica screwdriver out of his back pocket and winces at the clatter it makes against his house key and the bottle opener he may or may not have stolen from Greece’s house.

“But ever since we’ve been like _that_ ,” America says as he hugs it ( _ **hugs** it_ ), before drawing away to look disapprovingly down his nose at England. “Jessica and Tony get along really well, too,” he adds.

One quick, furious search later, and England’s eyes find Tony’s from across the yard. Tony is hiding behind a hibiscus that probably shouldn’t be able to grow where it is growing. Tony is shifting from foot to foot, nervously glancing between America and the Dalek. England is tempted to wave the screwdriver at him in warning, because _you’re next, Martian, you should know better than to let America around that thing_ , but that would not be gentlemanly. He settles for giving the little snot the finger.

That is Jessica’s breaking point. “EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE!”

England and Tony jump. America says something about inside voices, even though they are all, with the exception of Tony, standing not a stone’s throw away from his front walk.

The Dalek makes a buzzing noise, and _it is processing America’s words_. England wishes the Doctor would hurry it up.

“MOUNTAIN DEW! MOUNTAIN DEW!”

America beams, asks, “How did you know I wanted some Code Red in my lemonade? You’re the best, Jessica.”

There is a blast.

England waves his shaking arms, screwdriver lit and dangerous, at the smoldering remainds of the Dalek’s glass. The purple twisty straw is melted beyond recognition, fused to the tabletop. “I will call the Doctor!”

Tony perks up.

So does America.

Jessica hesitates, as much as a Dalek can hesitate or convey emotions.

“Doctor?” America is looking at England in the way he looks at Canada when it’s hockey season: as though he’s seeing something very strange for the very first time. “Is Jessica sick?”

“NOT SICK! NOT SICK!”

England realizes he’s begun to laugh.

America misses the tone, as always. He shakes his head at England before turning all of his attention to his new pet. Friend. Killing machine. ( _And England is laughing so hard he is crying, now, because the Dalek looks as though she- it is comforting America and he must be so drunk right now_ ).“Is she dying? Jess, do you want a hug?”

“NO HUGS! NO HUGS!” Jessica lets her lights flash and her periscope… thing… wobble. “DALEKS ARE SUPREME BEINGS. DALEKS DO NOT NEED—” she quiets when America grabs her into a crushing hug and parts of her hull begin to crack. “MAYBE ONE.”

Despite himself, and his newfound insanity because what is the world coming to, England raises an eyebrow.

Jessica huffs ( _if Daleks could huff_ ). “JUST THE ONE. JUST THE ONE.”

America lifts her off the ground and doesn’t even look tired doing it. This makes sense because America has always been an amazingly strong brat. How he could have forgotten that, England has no idea. He also has no idea how super-strength relates to withstanding disintegration beams. But everyone in the yard is still in one piece, there are no phone boxes in this town at all, and England has insanity.

Those with insanity have no need for fear.

He stalks over the grass before letting the edge of his loafers tap the side of her shell. He tries to be as condescending as possible about it; as many nations ( _like Spain_ ) will attest, England can condescend with the best of them no matter his mental state. “Doesn’t look much like a Jessica,” he sniffs.

America coughs when the Dalek’s arm… things… catch him in the chest. The struggle is not enough to stop him from getting more defensive than the thing deserves. “Shut up!” he spits, “Jessica loves her name!”

“Can Daleks even be…?”

“YES! I AM JESS-I-CA!” Jessica shoots a beam into the sky and a few blocks away the dusty remains of a pigeon scatter down onto the pavement. “EX-TER-MI-NATE!”

England starts laughing again, because he figures, why not?

“She likes saying that a lot. I told her that we don’t even have a bug problem, but,” and here America whispers, “sometimes I think Jessica might not have been given the shiniest circuitry. If you know what I mean.” He winks at England, before winking at Jessica’s visual sensors. “But I love her anyway,” he resumes cooing, “don’t I Jess-Jess?”

Oh sweet Parliament. **Jess-Jess**.

“AFFIRMATIVE!”

America rounds on England again. If his hands were free, he would have used them to poke at England’s sweater vest-clad chest. England has had America’s fingers poking him in the chest more times than he cares to remember in the past seventy years. He wishes America would find a more mature way of expressing his displeasure.

“Jessica can be whatever she wants to be,” America bristles, “So take that with your biscuits, which are really cookies, and smoke it!”

“That doesn’t even—”

“C’mon Jess, we’re going.”

They walk away, together, because America is still carrying it. Her.

Just a second too late, England remembers his fully-functional, magically-powered replica ( _not really sonic_ ) screwdriver. He points it at the front door America has just slammed shut and wishes the faint wheezing sound it emits were more impressive. “You get back here young man,” he shouts through the door, “and you stay away from that Dalek. Its kind is no good, America, I am telling you to stop!”

There is silence, before a whumping sound begins to resonate from behind the hibiscus and a victorious gloating begins to resonate from behind the door.

“Nyah!”

“NYAH! NYAH! IN-FER-I-OR SWEATER MAN! NYAH!”

“Yeah your sweater _is_ inferrous!”

England gives up on his screwdriver in order to throw his full weight against the door. He hears a quick patter of footsteps behind him but pays them no attention because insanity is very single-minded.

“SMOKE YOUR BIS-CUITS!”

England screams.

From behind him, the footsteps stop. “So I take it this isn’t Barcelona then?”

**Author's Note:**

> Tonight I learned that lemonade as I know it is not always what people envision when they think of lemonade. It blew my mind a little. Yes that is the Doctor at the end there. Poor England, looking foolish in front of his idol.
> 
>  **how America isn’t dead:** because. In part because he is a strong sonuva, in part because maybe Jessica has picked up a little cru-ush.
> 
>  **how America found a Dalek anyway:** I would tell you, but that would rip open the very fabric of space-time so let’s not and say we did


End file.
